White Rose Black Forest(21)

“Thank you.”

“Now how are we going to get you back into that bed?”

“I crawled out here. I can crawl back in.”

“And how exactly do you suggest crawling back into the bed? You won’t be able to haul yourself up.”

“I can manage it.”

“I have a better idea.” Franka went around behind him and tilted the rocking chair backward so that his legs were off the ground. He stifled the pain, biting down on his fist. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to get you back into the bed first, and then I’ll give you the painkillers.”

“It’s just a little discomfort. I’m fine.”

Franka took her hand off the man’s shoulder and pushed the rocking chair. He kept the gun on his lap. She didn’t reach for it or even ask for it back. Pushing him proved harder than she’d anticipated, and progress back to the bedroom was slow. Thankfully, it was only twenty feet away, and after a few aborted attempts, they arrived at the bed. The man tried to haul himself up, his thick arms struggling with his weight until she reached under his armpits, helping him up and over. He reached back for the pistol and shoved it under his pillow. Best to let him keep it, to show him that she trusted him, that she wasn’t the enemy. He lay back, the pain he was trying to hide etched on his face. He was sweating, panting, and she left to get him a glass of water before coming back and administering the drugs.

“It will take about twenty minutes for the drugs to start working, and then I’ll set your cast tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’ll get you something to eat before any nausea sets in.”

The man nodded. She smiled at him before going back to the kitchen and returning with a plate of fresh bread and cheese. He ate it in seconds and collapsed back onto the pillow.

It was after seven o’clock. “I’m going to leave you now. Try to relax and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” I’ll be the one asking the questions then.

The man closed his eyes, the drug-induced euphoria kicking in. A tiny smile came across his face.

“Good night, Fr?ulein,” he whispered.

She covered him with a thick layer of blankets, extinguished the oil lamp, and shut the door behind her as she left. He’d picked the lock once. Locking the door would be useless now. She would have to trust him, because she knew he wasn’t giving up her father’s gun.

The fatigue she’d denied all day came to bear, and she shuffled into the kitchen to get some ham and bread. As much as she wanted to go to bed, she knew that the fire wouldn’t last the night, and the supply of wood was getting perilously low. She finished her meager meal, and after summoning the energy, she put on her hat, coat, and gloves and ventured back outside. Fortunately, there was just enough chopped wood remaining on the back porch to get them through the night. She would need to get more tomorrow. It was up to her. Everything would be.

Daniel Berkel haunted her thoughts as she lay in bed. His ice-blue eyes were the last thing she saw before she finally succumbed to sleep.



The house was cold when she woke. The fires had died overnight, and the air in the cabin was bordering on glacial. The mountainous layer of blankets on her bed was the only sanctuary, but she knew it was a temporary one. Hunger, and her desire to check on the man, drove her feet onto the floor. Her coat was hanging by the bed, and she put it on over her nightdress before emerging from her bedroom. With no sign of life from the other bedroom, she made herself a breakfast of liverwurst, bread, and cheese. The snow had come in earnest again last night, and the car was almost invisible now. Her footprints would be covered at least, and with the roads closed for a few more days the man would have some time to recover from the worst of his pain. The extra layers of snow outside would also offer some protection against any unwanted visits from Berkel. Perhaps by the time the snow had melted and the roads were passable, he would assume that she’d moved back to Munich. Wishful thinking. The Gestapo never assumed anything. She would need to finish that hiding place under the floorboards as soon as possible.

Franka went to the man, pushing his bedroom door open with two fingers. He was still asleep, lying on his back, snoring.

“You sleep, whoever you are,” she whispered. “That’s the best thing for you.” She stayed in the doorway for another minute or two, listening to the sound of him breathing, hoping to hear him say something in English again, to cement her convictions. He didn’t say a word, in English or German. She left him. The matter of warming the cabin was more pressing.

The snow was three feet deep beyond the back porch. She took the sled and dragged it into the woods, ax in hand. Her father had taught her these things when she was a child. He hadn’t loved her any less because she was a girl but hadn’t babied her either. He taught her how to gather wood, season it, and set the fire. He taught her how to shoot, set traps, and skin and prepare the kill. He’d also introduced her to the works of Goethe, Hesse, and Mann, as well as the now-banned novel by Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front. She thought about her father for the two hours she spent collecting wood. The Allies had killed him, and now one of them was asleep in his cabin. She tried to mentally separate the stranger in the spare room from the men who’d dropped those bombs. She knew that the Nazis were the aggressors, but where was the justice in carpet-bombing civilians? Tens of thousands of innocents had already died, and the bombings were only intensifying. Then again, the enemy of her enemy was her friend. Despite what they’d done, the Allies had to have some kind of right on their side, and helping the man could afford her the chance to get some measure of revenge on the Nazis.